Winter's Melody
by chraezanty1317
Summary: Modern AU. Day after day, he fleetingly passes her by without throwing her as much as a penny and holding her gaze just long enough to provoke a scowl, more often than not when the pavement is flooded with rain and icy drops smear her cheeks with dirt.


At times, it seems to him like she has always been there. Like the existence of the very street depended on whether she drew breath or not, that the ground would simply swallow the tiny café and shabby library next to the crammed brick apartments up should her heart stop beating.

It is not even the main road where she can be found at all times. A narrow alley that is incredibly easy to overlook, blink and you miss it as he walks by the bakery around the corner every morning, that would be a superior description. Still, he finds himself turning left each time, never questioning it. He tells himself that it is a useful shortcut to the university, valuable for being the alternative to wandering through a maze of avenues and tapping that one annoying melody he continually fails to get out of his head with his foot as he grows impatient waiting for the traffic lights to turn green.

In a way, he is perfectly right. Next to no one ever bothers to even step foot into the alley, which is convenient for a law student that does not bother to find a cure for his insomnia, leading to sleepless nights and headaches in the morning as sleep tries to dig its claws deep into his mind. If nature forces him to throw away the time he was given via sleep, then it is the least he can do to prevent wasting it on detours. Peace is useful, after all, and if he finds himself muttering facts and figures under his breath there is no one around to hear and call him out on it.

That is, if one is to ignore the proverbial shadow clinging to him that he can't remember being unaware of.

Enjolras knows that he is being completely ridiculous. The street musician hardly pays him any attention, at least not to a degree that it would be declared unusual. Occasionally, if ever, she graces him with a look. Challenging him to walk by her without bestowing any materialistic token of appreciation for her art first.

Day after day, he fleetingly passes her by without throwing her as much as a penny and holding her gaze just long enough to provoke a scowl, more often than not when the pavement is flooded with rain and icy drops smear her cheeks with dirt.

Her eyes, sunken into the hollows of her skull, are clear and burn with a low, steady fire that threatens to burn anyone who tries to strike up a conversation. She is not sitting on a rotten bench - eaten by worms as well, in all probability - to amuse little children who ask her what the thing she's holding is exactly. Her voice will never have a teacher's calm and soothing quality that would tell a curious observer that the tiny metal object in her right hand is a harmonica. She has an air of indifference about her, as if the empty violin case at her feet has appeared there out of nowhere and she simply cannot be bothered to get rid of it. No pedestrian has the impression that she expects and wants to be paid; instead, she appears to be trapped in a world that is her own, impenetrable, like she has decided to settle herself down for the sake of it, to see what will happen. It is an experiment _ad infinitum _that allows for no interruptions.

He never hears her speaking voice, and if her singing is any indication (knowing full well the two are not necessarily in close relation to each other), it would not be a pitch pleasantly received by most people.

Enjolras considers himself unable to find a save haven in music, as various of his friends claim to. However, that is not to say that he cannot recognize talent when it stares him in the face.

Her singing is mediocre, substandard even when compared to the likes of her to be found across the road. She plays the harmonica with skill and yet he spots scratches all over its surface, which suggests she treats it without any special care and does not seem to notice when the rain has filled it up enough to affect the sounds it makes, rendering a cheery melody muffled and suffocated. It grates on his ears each time he becomes conscious of it and she raises an eyebrow at him without missing a beat or interrupting the song even if there is nobody in earshot to mind. Provocative, smug, rebellious.

They do not exchange words and therefore he does not tell her that, despite everything, he rather does not mind walking down the alley. He sees no obvious, discernible reason to do so. It would bring no change.

* * *

><p>The temperature has dropped below zero. Enjolras can see his breath leaving his mouth each time he exhales.<p>

The warmth meets him in a wave of considerable force as he enters the building. It is crowded, granted. Why would it be any different during such weather?

Yet, he is astonished when he makes out the mess of jet-black curls, unruly if in a ponytail. It is matted, though if that is a calculated move meant to provoke a specific emotional response from a passerby or due to a simple lack of care, it is impossible to say. Her frail body provides a bizarre sight, as she seems so out of place in the confectionary in the faded beige coat that is far too long and too big to fit her.

She is sitting in a secluded corner, absent-mindedly gnawing at her bottom lip with sharp, even teeth while her eyes dart restlessly from one fixed point to another. She spins on a barstool that she must have carried away from the counter. Aimless for once. Enjolras cannot help but wonder if her harmonica is hidden away in her breast pocket.

He makes his way to the salesman and orders two coffees. Black, no sugar. The last thing he needs is an overdose of sugar, while he finds himself in dire want of caffeine. His throat is dry and he gulps half of the first steaming cup in one swallow. He finishes the rest in less than a minute and stares out of the window for a moment, watching the fall of swirling snowflakes and single children failing to form decent snowballs.

By the time he leaves, he can almost believe he left the second coffee by accident. He does not look back to see if she has taken it.

* * *

><p>Their daily routine has been disrupted by a minute detail that particular morning that immediately draws his attention: her slender hands are wrapped securely around a paper cup. As he draws nearer, he is able to distinguish her skin, cracked from the merciless cold. The smell of coffee is overwhelming.<p>

One and a half weeks have passed since their not-quite encounter at the café. For whatever reason, he deems that important.

He halts, hands at his sides, so that he effortlessly could have passed for a marble statue. They face each other in silence.

She keeps eye contact as she lifts the cup to her lips and sips the hot liquid. The wisp of steam blurs her features for less than a second, only to make them visible in time for Enjolras to catch a barely suppressed grimace ghost over her face.

"This tastes awful."

Her voice is low and raspy - he would have estimated that was down to it being roughened by the cold. Somehow, he knows better. Although a shot in the dark, liquor would be his safest bet.

"You drink it because-" He starts to phrase a question that isn't one when her lips, upon which a smile is playing, part once more.

"It's freezing.", she finishes. The corners of her mouth are still upturned at the corners in a pleasant smirk.

When he sees a solitary drop of water fall from her chin, at first he has the crazy notion that she is crying. She's hard as iron and water _rusts_ iron. Ridiculous, to even imagine these things.

As both of them look up at the sky simultaneously, he almost laughs. Why, rain is the only thing it can be.

* * *

><p>If Enjolras had been more of a people person or an ambitious psychologist, he would have found it all very fascinating. As it is, he concentrates on the fact that while there may be changes, they are insignificant for the big picture and the majority of familiar territory has remained.<p>

She hangs around the confectionary where he has first seen her outside of their ritual, her shadow melting into the stone wall, the limbs not illuminated by sunrays cast in darkness. Her shape seems surreal set against the facade of everyday life.

It has snowed the previous day and Enjolras tries his hardest not to slip on the thin ice that covers the street. Leave it to the med students to be oblivious to the existence of thawing salt now and complain about sprains induced by a predictable enough lack of coordination later.

He does not expect to catch her and he is not disappointed.

As if on cue, a loose brick falls out of the wall. He has to squat right next to the bins containing mold-infested leftovers so the only solution left to stand the reek - other than throwing up - is to cover his nose with his hands. The sight of the wallet he had thought lost since noon throws him off figurative-balance to the degree that he remains frozen for a good forty seconds before shouts in the distance bring him out of his daze.

For once, Enjolras approves of a healthy break from education as he is already walking into the opposite direction from his university.

He is not that far gone yet as to start believing in coincidences or fate, but when he arrives at the alley, she is neither singing nor playing. She is polishing her harmonica with an oily cloth that looks fit to fall apart of its own accord. She has all the time in the world and makes no indication to show that she hears his approaching footsteps.

His shadow towers over her slim body and she raises her head, shielding her eyes with her hand as if expecting to be blinded.

"You could argue that you owe me one. The time it took me to get to law school cost me actual money." She leans her head every so slightly to the left, mockingly saluting him as means of greeting. Having collected her wits about her, she does not let any opportunity to stand her ground pass her by.

"You hardly get paid as it is, no one ever comes here."

"You severely underestimate yourself. You're my regular!" His harsh words seem to have no effect on her and sarcasm just another one of her quirks to add to the proverbial list.

"You could have helped yourself. Bound to have been some coins of questionable worth in there."

She rolls her eyes. "Spare me. For one thing, you have counted every single speck of dust on your way here to make sure nothing is missing. Two, I'm neither stupid nor desperate. Three, we're quits at this point."

"Fair enough." He's burning to ask if she has deliberately brought the coffee with her the other day and if there was any meaning behind it, but she is already putting Bob Dylan to shame with her rendition of Like A Rolling Stone.

She keeps the secret of him grinning unknowingly ever since she commenced with her recital to herself.

* * *

><p>Come hell or high water, she will play on. Her wince of pain, however, does everything but escape his notice.<p>

"_Shit_!" Her outburst of profanity is unsubtle and loud as can be in the dead silence of a city still rubbing sleep out of its eyes at 6 a.m. Of course, she expects him to ignore it.

"Shouldn't you get someone to take a look?", he inquires, nodding at the sling loosely draped around her arm. The limb sticks out at an inappropriate angle and Enjolras is no need of biology class beyond fifth grade to recognise a broken arm when he sees one.

She casts a glance reserved for utter morons at him. He can almost see the words _Are you kidding? _float above her head in a cartoonish speech bubble.

He seats himself next to her on the soggy bench, splinters digging into his back through his red vest, and witnesses her hot temper retreating temporarily. The fire in her eyes is extinguished, tongues of flames not ready to lash out at him just yet when confronted with his surprisingly - to himself, most of all - genuine concern. He takes the time to observe her at work, carrying on, spinning a never-ending web of melodies with growing confidence and ease as each minute goes by.

Not for the first time, Enjolras notices character traits reserved exclusively for the eyes of strangers. Because she does not feel pressured to prove anything or impress anyone, she does not hide behind a mask or walls. No one close would know that her speaking voice has a tendency to crack at the end of a question, while nothing similar occurs during a song, where she simply carries on belting out the wrong note without hesitation. Or the way she taps the rhythm with her foot against the ground, shuffling fallen leaves to form a complicated jigsaw puzzle as she keeps her head down and brows drawn together in concentration.

* * *

><p>Joly experiences an approximation of medical student's worst nightmare when he catches sight of Enjolras with a girl in tow and a thought (<em>I'm having a heart attack, it's happened at last and I haven't even thought about my will) <em>flashes briefly through his mind. He stares out of the window for a long time to be absolutely certain his eyes are not playing a trick on him before opening the door.

"What's happened?" Enjolras almost pities his friend as he watches his expression.

"Run-off-the-mill broken arm.", she replies curtly, sizing the stranger up warily.

"Sorry, who _are_ you?"

Enjolras' tongue seems to be glued to his throat as he is physically unable to utter a single word, save coherent sentences with any kind of warped logic.

"An old friend." She smirks shamelessly, glancing up at the law student like she thoroughly enjoys to see him struggle with the situation.

"Friend?" Joly raises an eyebrow incredulously. He barely keeps from asking what on earth she has done to persuade Apollo to spend time with a female.

"We've known each other long enough, two and a half years and counting!" She boldly puts out her hand, shoving Enjolras inside the apartment to meet Joly on equal footing. The latter recoils at the sight of her fingernails, which are not merely brutally short, but bitten bloody, sheer paradise for bacteria.

"I'm Éponine."

* * *

><p>Enjolras has entered her world, the one he had once thought impenetrable, and finds that there is no going back.<p> 


End file.
